“Let me help you,” Hera said, seeing that he strained every muscle. “No, no! Hold the horses! Now is our time. We are in shallow water.” He looped the rope about his right hand, and with this alone held them to the shore. Kneeling on the half-submerged planks at the edge, he leaned over the water, and, with his left hand, passed the end of the lariat under and around a yet staunch timber of the deck. In his teeth he caught the end and held it; then clutched it again in his free hand, and, with the quick movement of one sure of his knot, made it fast. “Now for it,” he said, on his feet once more, as their raft, tugging hard at the line, swung around with the current, and another pontoon broke away. Before she was aware of his purpose he had lifted her into the saddle and mounted his own horse. “Come along,” he said, cheerfully. “It is only wet feet at the worst,” and he put spur to his horse. Their animals sprang into the water together just as the lariat snapped, and the raft, set free, went on with the rushing flood. Side by side they splashed their way to the pebbled beach and up to where the ruins of Alboin’s temple reposed. Before them was a ride in the growing dusk over open lengths of hillside pass and by sylvan roads to Villa Barbiondi. On high the wind blew swiftly; clouds that had lost their lustre raced away, and the shadows fell long on hills that were dull and bare as yet, but soon to be lightened with passionate blossoming. Before her, in the gloaming distance, were glimpses over the trees of her father’s dark-walled house--a grand old villa, impressive by contrast with its trim white neighbours pointing the perspective. Glad to feel solid ground beneath their hoofs once more, the horses galloped away, and their riders let them go. Not until the partial darkness of a grove enclosed them did they slacken speed; there the road wore upward, and the horses of their will came to a walk. Beyond the black stocks and naked boughs the crimson glow of sunset lingered. “Now that it is past,” Hera said, as if musing, “I see how great was the danger.” “I think you were alive to it at the time,” he returned in the manner of one who had observed and judged. “You are brave.” “It was confidence more than bravery,” she told him frankly. “But you made it easy for me to do my part,” he insisted. “That was because--well, as I see it now--because there was no moment when I did not feel that we should come out of it all right.” “Then I must tell you,” he said, “to whom we are indebted for our escape. Somewhere in the woods, the fields, or the highways on the other side of the river is a Guernsey heifer living just now in the joy or sorrow of newly gained freedom. But for that we might not be here in fairly dry clothes.” They had emerged from the grove, and he pointed toward the opposite shore, where the white buildings of the Social Dairy were still visible, though the twilight was almost gone.